


Into the Black Petals

by voleuse



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>We are more than our hunger and yet we belong to the moon</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Black Petals

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series. Title and summary adapted from Mary Oliver's _Blossom_.

The left rear window shattered as a bullet impacted, and Michael swore.

Fiona laughed, spinning the wheel as she dodged around a taxicab. "At least they missed, Michael."

"Yeah, well," he said, ducking low as the gunman behind them leaned out a window again, "this is a rental."

She glanced over at him, aghast. "You paid money for this car?" She yanked at the wheel, and they swerved through an intersection. "You could have picked something with better handling."

"Can we talk about this later?" he asked. Sirens rose in the distance, a familiar and unwelcome wail. "When people aren't shooting at us?"

She smirked. "Never, then?"

"Works for me."

_What  
we know: that time  
chops at us all like an iron  
hoe, that death  
is a state of paralysis._

They ditched the car behind a trash bin in a better part of town, and Michael made a mental note to never use this name in Eastern Europe again, just in case.

Fiona used a key card to use the back entrance of hotel, and he didn't ask where she got it, why she had it. They slipped onto the nearest service elevator, and Fiona punched the button for the seventeenth floor. The floor of the elevator was scuffed, ugly, so he stared up at the ceiling and for a moment, let his guard down.

"Are you all right?" she asked, and her voice was softer than usual.

He gritted his teeth. "Let's get to a room first."

"A little eager, aren't you?" She slinked up to him, put a hand to his arm. Then she drew back, hissing. "You're bleeding."

He glanced down at his arm, at the blood blotting the black of his jacket sleeve. "It's just a graze," he said.

"You could have mentioned that before."

He sighed. "You have a kit in your room, right?"

"Don't be an idiot, Michael."

"Right."

They rode the rest of the way up in silence, the elevator pausing once on the twelfth floor to admit a maid pushing a pristine room service cart. Michael smiled at her and tried not to clutch his arm, tamping down self-conscious instinct.

Fiona greeted the woman in Czech, and he forestalled his flinch until the maid disembarked on the fourteenth floor.

"That was reckless, don't you think?" He shifted his shoulders, winced at the chafe of cloth against his wound.

"Better she remember me than you," Fiona snapped, straightening the straps of her dress. "Stop frowning."

The elevator doors opened, and a smile bloomed over her face. Michael grunted, then arranged his features into something presentable.

By the time they reached Fiona's room, his arm was around her waist, and another guest, passing them in the hallway, winked at Michael, envy on his face.

Fiona keyed her door open, and directed Michael to the booze.

_What  
we long for: joy  
before death, nights  
in the swale - everything else  
can wait but not  
this_

The wound was even less than a graze, but it hurt like hell, and Michael didn't hesitate to take a swig of the way-too-expensive bourbon as Fiona splashed vodka onto his arm.

"Damn it, Fi," he said, fingers curling into fists. "You couldn't warn me?"

"Why would I do that?" she asked. "You're lucky. I don't think you even need stitches." She taped gauze over the wound, patting it roughly when she finished. "All better."

Michael took another drink, then handed the bottle into Fiona's grasp. She took an experimental sip, then a gulp. "My charter doesn't leave until morning," he said. He picked up his shirt, contemplated the jagged rip in the sleeve.

"They can't trace this room to you," she replied. "We can stay here until morning."

Michael wanted to say no, he wanted to find a reason to leave, to distance himself from her, because he had been _shot_, and shot at, too many times in the past 36 hours. And she was smiling at him, and she took the shirt from his hands, and then he forgot he had a choice.

The straps of Fiona's dress were delicate as he pushed them off her shoulders, almost hesitant. He could feel the strain of the thread, as if he could snap it if he thought too hard.

Fiona, impatient, lunged, her arms snaking around his neck, pulling him down into a harsh kiss, lips and teeth and tongue. He stroked a hand down her spine, counting the vertebrae, creating a mantra.

The buttons on the bodice of her dress scratched against his chest, and she was still holding the bourbon, the bottle thumping against his shoulder as alcohol cascaded across his back for a moment. He jerked at the splash, and Fiona laughed. They parted, and she set down the bottle. She slithered out of her dress, and he stared at her, at the light flooding in from the window, outlining her, shadowing her.

Leaving the curtains open, he thought, was a bad idea, security-wise.

Then she shed her bra, her panties, and his concern melted into an urgent need to reach the bedroom, quickly, _now_.

She stalked forward, and he paced back, back until his legs hit the edge of a mattress. She yanked at his belt, at the fastenings of his pants, and he yelped when she stepped on his foot. She paused, looked down at their bare feet, and then smiled up at him.

She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest. "Sorry," she said.

"Not important," he replied, and he slid his palms against her hips. She pushed him back, and he fell onto the bed, let her yank his pants off. "Wallet," he managed to choke out, despite her clever left hand.

Fiona hummed, flipped open his wallet with her right hand, and he moaned gratitude at her dexterity. And she rose over him, her hair wreathed about her shoulders, and he clasped her hands as they fell together.

_when the burning  
begins the most  
thoughtful among us dreams  
of hurrying down  
into the black petals  
into the fire_

Michael woke before the sun rose. Their bodies curled against each other, and he curled a lock of her hair around his finger. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, and she woke.

"You need to get to the airport," she murmured.

He nodded. "It's better if you stay here."

"I know." She stretched, writhing, and he almost considered calling in for a later extraction.

He let her pull him down into a kiss, and that was the best they'd ever gotten at saying goodbye.


End file.
